“No,” said Mr. Henchy, “I think he’s travelling on his own account.⁠ ⁠… God forgive me,” he added, “I thought he was the dozen of stout.”

“Is there any chance of a drink itself?” asked Mr. O’Connor.

“I’m dry too,” said the old man.

“I asked that little shoeboy three times,” said Mr. Henchy, “would he send up a dozen of stout. I asked him again now, but he was leaning on the counter in his shirtsleeves having a deep goster with Alderman Cowley.”

“Why didn’t you remind him?” said Mr. O’Connor.